The Importance of Clean Denim
by Deanie McQueen
Summary: Dean pushed him forward yet again and smacked him playfully on the ass. Sam squeaked and closed the bathroom door to the sounds of his brother humming Greensleeves out of tune. What had he done?
1. Sam's Hope

**Author's Note:** When I was in grade school, I had a teacher who hailed from London and she called herself Mrs. Weatherby. Now I'm not sure if Mrs. Weatherby was her actual name (as a young McQueen I was rather suspicious of everyone around me, a Nancy Drew sort, if you will, always solving mysteries) but she always scared me so much with her self-proclaimed British charm and love of threatening young children with birthday spankings. Now, of course, most British people are perfectly lovely (except for those ones who eat the intestines of those poor sheep. They're wrong, wrong, wrong), but sometimes I just had to wonder if Mrs. Weatherby was, in fact, a demon. Or quail, if you will. I hope you enjoy this story.

* * *

**The Importance of Clean Denim**

by Deanie McQueen

* * *

Sam sighed heavily and resumed his attempts to rub the grass stains out of the knees of his jeans. He dunked them in the soapy water he'd filled the sink with, rubbed them together and hoped beyond hope that this time - _this _time - it would work.

It didn't.

"_Dean_!" he hollered.

Intellectually, he knew it was ridiculous to yell for his brother from the motel bathroom when Dean was about ten feet away at most, lounging on the closest bed and watching _Franklin._

"What?" Dean asked. Sam peeked out the door. Dean's eyes were still on the screen, his finger lazily popping in and out of bottle of whiskey in his hand.

"I can't get my jeans clean."

"I don't care."

"But I _can't_-"

"Whining doesn't make me start caring, either."

"They were my only decent pair and now they have _grass stains-"_

"Still don't care."

Sam huffed. Sometimes he really wished Dean were more like him. He wished he just had a brother who would say, "God. I hate grass stains, you're right, Sam, they're the absolute _worst."_ Dean's not that brother, though. And he'll never be that brother.

..._unless_...

"I'm gonna go out," Sam announced, picking up Dean's razor (which was just sitting there on the bathroom counter all used and _disgusting_) and shoving it in his pocket. He then pulled his sopping, sudsy jeans from the sink only to hurl them at his brother's face as soon as he stepped into the main room. "Don't wait up."

"You little _bitch_."

Dean was up and after him in a breath, but Sam's legs were long and quick and he was out the door just as soon as he heard, "_Franklin can tie his shoes and count by twos. He can zip zippers and button buttons..._

_Dean must be having an off night,_ Sam realized as he poked through the parking lot for a decent steal. Comfort TV _and_ alcohol, that was a tried and true recipe for the temporary healing of a Dean-shaped brain. But..._but_. That didn't excuse the lack of compassion for the demise of Sam's one good pair of jeans - and Sam really just wanted to see what it was like, if only for a little while, to have a brother who understood the way he felt about these things.

So he called up this witch he knew.

He'd met her about a month ago, in a case that ended bad and bloody. Dean would kill him if he ever became aware of the fact that Sam kept this chick as an acquaintance, what with the merciless slaughter of bunnies and all, but Sam didn't care. Sam didn't care because Dean didn't care. Fresh, clean denim is important no matter who you are, thank you very much.

He chatted with her on the phone as he cruised the streets in his borrowed PT Cruiser. He ran his hand lovingly over her wheel, breathed in the scent of the new car smell-scented air freshener hanging from the rearview. He'd always wanted one of these babies. Sam dreamed of great things when he went off to college, you see, and these things happened to include a PT Cruiser and a really nice tie.

"So you want him to what now?" she asked for the third time and Sam slapped a hand over his face and tried not to snap out his next words.

"I want him to care about_ important _things, Brunhilda-"

"My name is _not_ Brunhilda."

"It's not?" Sam blinked. "Huh. Dean said it was..."

"Yeah, well your brother is a-"

"My brother is a man who needs to care about clean denim," Sam interrupted her in firm tones. "And salads. Can you do that for me?"

She said she could. Sam delivered the razor in haste, waited on shifting feet as she pried the teeny hairs from the dull blades.

"I can work with this," she said decisively.

"Good," Sam said. "Can you have it done in an hour? That's how long its going to take me to get back to the motel and I want to come home to a brother who also happens to be a somewhat respectable human being."

"Sure," she agreed. "I can have it done in an hour."

Sam thanked her and left. He took his time driving back to the motel in case she needed longer than an hour because he was really still pissed off at Dean for not caring about his grass stain crisis. He parked the car in the spot he found it in, knowing nobody had missed it while he was gone. Sam was a spectacular car thief, really. Nobody ever found him out no matter how obvious the thievery.

He stood at the motel door and took a deep breath.

"Here goes nothing," he muttered, and twisted the knob.

Dean was still sitting on the bed, just where Sam had left him. He was still staring at the TV and he was still consuming an alcoholic beverage, but instead of Nick Jr., the television was tuned into an educational program on PBS, and instead of a bottle of whiskey, Dean was downing a glass of very fine wine.

His black T-shirt, which had been sporting holes in several places, had been replaced with a nicely-pressed, crisp, white dress shirt. Coke-bottle glasses sat primly on the bridge of his straight nose.

"Dean, you look _fantastic,"_ Sam gushed.

Dean immediately pressed the power button on the remote control to switch off the television, all ears now that Sam was talking.

"Ta, Samuel," Dean said in a vaguely British accent. "I'm glad you can appreciate my manner of dress."

"I do!" Sam told him. "Dean, I really, really, do."

Dean smiled serenely and clapped his hands together. "Most excellent. Why don't you go to the bathroom?"

Now Sam was confused. He told Brunhilda to turn Dean into a gentleman, not a nanny. Sam didn't need anyone monitoring his digestive habits, you'll be pleased to know.

"Dean, I-"

"Shoo," Dean said, waving a dismissive hand. "Off you go, my dear younger brother. You'll be pleasantly surprised, I promise."

Sam gulped. The last time Dean had told him there was a surprise waiting for him in the bathroom, Sam had been ten years old and annoying and Dean had been fourteen years old and very open about his grossness. Or Grossocity. Whatever you want to call the art of being gross, that's what Dean had been.

"Oh, Sam." Dean rolled his eyes and got up from the bed, gently pushed Sam into the bathroom with a hand between his shoulder blades. Sam closed his own eyes until Dean said in gentle tones, "Go on. Have a looksie."

And there, on the bathroom countertop, were Sam's jeans, neatly folded and clean as the day he bought them.

The joy was too much to handle. Sam's eyes welled with tears.

"Oh, _Dean_," he blubbered and turned around quick as lighting to envelope his brother in the mother of all bear hugs. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Dean laughed a big belly laugh and patted Sam fondly on the back. "You're very welcome, Sam, anything for my adorable baby brother. And besides, clean jeans! They are a necessary and attainable standard. I wouldn't want you going without them, would I?"

"You wouldn't!" Sam sobbed into Dean's shoulder. "You wouldn't at all!"

"I wouldn't," Dean agreed. "I wouldn't at all. Now." He released Sam with a couple more pats on the back and then rubbed his hands together. "I propose we get ourselves to bed. We're going quail hunting bright and early!"

Sam blinked tears away from his lashes. "Q-quail hunting?"

Dean grinned. "Demon hunting, I meant! But I rather think I prefer to call them quails now. Sounds more pleasant, don't you think?"

"Um...sure?" Sam was so confused. What had happened to Dean? Why was he acting so, so strange?

"Sure!" Dean exclaimed, slapping Sam hard on the back.

"Ow-"

"Now, get your nightclothes on Sam. I'll read you some Paddington Bear, if you'd like. That'll put you right out with warm thoughts in your lovely head."

Sam gaped at his brother. Dean responded by carefully laying a folded pair of pajama pants and a folded T-shirt in his arms. "Off to the bathroom with you now, Sam. Get ready, brush your teethies. Tomorrow is another big day for us in the emotionally-traumatizing world of quail-hunting."

Dean pushed him forward yet again and smacked him playfully on the ass. Sam squeaked and closed the bathroom door to the sounds of his brother humming _Greensleeves_ out of tune.

What had he _done_?


	2. Sam's Regret

**Author's Note: **During my stint in Mrs. Weatherby's class, I often longed for a great many exquisite puddings.

* * *

**The Importance of Clean Denim**  
by Deanie McQueen

**Chapter Two**  
_~Sam's Regret~_

* * *

Sam woke up cranky the next morning, with Dean's cheerful hand shaking him into consciousness.

"Wakey wakey, Sam. I've drawn you a nice, hot bath and gone out for coffee already. And crumpets!"

"Crumpets?" Sam croaked, rubbing a fist over one sleepy eye. "Since when do you eat crumpets?"

"Since always," Dean said as he pulled the covers off of Sam's prone body. "Come on, now. Chop chop. Quails rest for no one!"

Sam groaned, but got up, stretched the cricks out of his limbs and shifted to the shower. He came out with wet hair and still-tired eyes, sat at the table where a hot crumpet was waiting for him on a teeny tiny plate, butter melted into every single one of the small crevices. Sam stared at it, wondering why when he had said "respectable human being," Brunhilda had apparently heard "quintessential English stereotype."

"Uh, this is nice, Dea- w-what are you doing!"

"Eat your crumpet, Sam," Dean replied jovially, as he toweled his little brother's hair in a rigorous fashion. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day! And if today is a success, I promise tonight we'll have sticky toffee pudding with clotted cream!"

"S-sticky toffee pudding w-with-"

"Clotted cream." Dean nodded sagely. "That's right, little brother mine. But only if you eat _all_ of your salad. That's right. All of it. Green vegetables are key to your dietary needs."

"I know..." Sam knew. Sam had been telling Dean this for years now. "Dean."

"Yes?"

"Dean, you're acting a little...weird."

Dean chuffed and tapped Sam on the back of the head. "Naughty, naughty, _naughty_, Samuel. Who do you think you are? Calling you're devoted older brother 'weird?'"

"Uh..."

"That's right. You think about that. There's no need to be so ungrateful." Dean sniffed as he folded the towel and turned his back on Sam.

And that was their morning.

Demon, er.._quail_ hunting was awkward at best. It was a supermarket, this time, and a butcher with black eyes that knew their names - they _always_ knew their names. Sam sometimes wondered how many areas of Hell were pasted with posters of their faces, and he was about to ask this dude with the cow blood still dripping from his cleaver, but he was interrupted by the high-pitched scream and abrupt fainting of his once-badass older sibling.

"Um..." the demonic butcher said, quirking an eyebrow. "Are you...are you serious with that? I mean, like...really?"

"Yeah..." Sam trailed off. "Yeah, you're right. This has to stop."

This had to stop.

Sam performed a swift and relatively painless exorcism before toting his brother out of the market and shoving him into the passenger seat. Dean awoke moments later.

"Is this my car?" he asked, smiling a woozy smile. "My oldy woldy car?"

"_No_," Sam told him, sounding much like a frustrated parent scolding an errant toddler. "This is your classic car. And you _love_ her. You love her and you don't appreciate clean jeans _or _salad."

"I don't?" Dean sounded confused. "Samuel, I'm pretty sure-"

"And you _don't_ call me Samuel," Sam continued. "You call me Sam. And sometimes, embarrassingly enough, when you're feeling particularly affectionate, you call me Sammy."

"Sammy Wammy?" Dean asked.

Sam made a very frustrated noise between his teeth. "And you don't towel my hair dry or read me Paddington Bear before I fall asleep."

"Yes, I do. I did last night."

"Well, you shouldn't have."

"Was it naughty?" Dean wanted to know.

"And you don't use the word 'naughty' unless you're talking about sordid acts you partake in with attractive women who have very low standards."

"Sam, really, I don't know what you're talking about at all-"

"And you don't _faint_ when we're about to exorcise a de-"

"Quail," Dean interrupted, shuddering at the apparent memory. "Can we please call them quails?"

"No, Dean. They're demons. And I don't want you to worry about it because I'm going to fix this."

"You are?"

"I am. This is my fault. I know who you are and I should accept it. You're never gonna be that guy, are you?"

Dean blinked through his coke-bottle glasses. "I guess not?

Sam unrolled his window and snatched the glasses off his brother's face. "You're _not_," he said in a voice full of vehemence, and he tossed the ugly things right out into the wind. "You're not at all."

Dean remained quietly thoughtful after that.

Brunhilda fixed it. She fixed it right up and Sam hugged her with same level of tearful joy that he hugged Dean with the previous night. Dean stood shaking his head and blinking, trying to regain his wits about him because it was apparently weird to be a British stereotype one minute and a grungy, cheeseburger-loving alcoholic the next.

"Sam?" he blinked. "Why the hell are you hugging Brunhilda?"

"My name is _not_ Brun-"

"Shut up and stop ganking bunnies," Dean snapped, and he pulled his gun out of his jeans to level it threateningly at her. "What did the bunnies ever do to you, anyway?"

"_Dean_," Sam grabbed his brother by the wrist and lowered it so the gun was pointing towards the floor. "C'mon, let's just get out of here..."

Dean narrowed his eyes at Brunhilda, but reluctantly followed.

Sam fidgeted uncomfortably in the passenger seat on their way to their next destination and tried not to meet those suspicious glances Dean kept tossing his way.

It took about fifty miles for it to start coming back.

"Why did I clean your jeans last night?" Dean wondered aloud at a rest stop, before taking a large bite of a half-melted chocolate bar.

"Uh...you were being nice," Sam told him, and Dean shrugged and tossed the wrapper into a trashcan.

"'Course I was. I'm a helluva guy."

"You are," Sam agreed. "You really, really are, Dean."

"Don't start crying," Dean warned him, and they got back in the car.

Another fifty miles and it was, "Dude...who the hell is Paddington Bear?"

And twenty more, in farm country. "Awwww, Sammy. Lookit the sheepsy weepsies...and why the fuck did I just say sheepsy weepsies?" Sam tried his best to disappear under the glare his brother shot him during that particular question.

Sixteen more miles had them at, "I really, really hate salad, you know."

"I know," Sam told him in a small voice.

Ten. "Crumpets are kinda delicious."

Seven. "I feel like I had a dream last night where a quail killed a cow and Sam...Sam, that makes zero sense. Zilch."

Five, fingering a button on his white dress shirt. "Where the fuck did this pansy ass shirt come from? Is this yours?"

One. "I'm gonna kill you, I hope you know.

"I know," Sam squeaked.

"You better know. Where's my whiskey?"

"It turned into wine." Sam shrunk into his seat. "I'm sorry."

"You should be. I'm gonna kill you so hard. I _fainted. _In front of the _enemy."_

"I'm so sorry."

"Whatever."

Dean was quiet for a long time after that. Sam tried very hard not to breathe too loudly, lest he remind his brother that he was still alive and kicking.

Twenty miles. "I really want some sticky toffee pudding with clotted cream and I don't know what the fuck that is."

"It's, uh..."

"I don't care," Dean told him, and knocked a light fist into Sam's thigh. "I don't care what it is. We're gettin' pie."

"We are?"

"Yes. You're paying."

Sam breathed a sigh of relief and internally vowed to always appreciate his brother. Dean may not be _that_ guy, but he was _this_ guy. And despite the fact that Sam knew this guy did his very best to make clean denim dirty, and that Sam's own clean, respectable pair of jeans would be shredded to hell and possibly burned that very night, he was very glad to buy this guy a slice of pie. Or three.

* * *

**~Fin~**


End file.
